


Something Akin to Falling in Love

by williamastankova



Category: The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, ? - Freeform, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Bottom Nick Carraway, Dating, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gay Nick Carraway, Grinding, Idiots in Love, Jay Gatsby Lives, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Nick Carraway, Old Sport (The Great Gatsby), POV First Person, POV Nick Carraway, Rejection, Sort Of, Walks In The Park, be warned, bisexual jay gatsby, etc etc., lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: After being rejected by Daisy, Gatsby turns to Nick for support, and they find it in the most unexpected of places.(aka POV!Nick, he believes Gatsby only wants him because he reminds him of Daisy, but this just may not be the case.)
Relationships: Daisy Buchanan/Jay Gatsby (past), Jordan Baker & Nick Carraway, Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 12
Kudos: 275





	Something Akin to Falling in Love

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank God for giving me this *totally original* idea at 2am, and I would like to pray that my English teacher never finds this.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

"You know, I haven't used that pool once all summer, old sport," Gatsby monologued, voice timid, almost vulnerable. I could tell he was nervously anticipating Daisy's call, not knowing when the telephone might ring. He cast his sheepish gaze back at me, trying to sound casual as he asked, "Won't you take a swim with me?"

I deliberated. I had to be in work in just a few hours, so I should have politely declined Gatsby's offer. I wanted to go home, to sleep for as long as my job would let me, to have time to dress in the comfort of my own home before heading off for another full day's work, but something about the man's tone stopped me dead in my tracks. As though I was glued to the floor beneath my feet, I could only stare at Gatsby, this extraordinary man who had so quickly become my friend, and finally I nodded.

"Of course," I told him, offering a warm smile, watching the relief wash over his face. His posture shifted, becoming much more relaxed as I continued, warning, "But I'll have to call into work before they go thinking I've run off on them."

Gatsby's grin grew wider, genial and ever-accepting, "That's no problem, old sport. There's a telephone just in the lobby you can use. I'll be in the pool once you're finished."

And so, with a childish excitement flowing through my veins as though Gatsby had offered me the greatest gift, I hurried to said telephone, dialled up my place of work, and told them I had unfortunately fallen ill, and that I regretted to report that I wouldn't be working that day. Perhaps I should have felt some sort of dismay as the unfazed voice on the other end of the line merely told me that was fine and hung up, as though I was never really needed in the first place, but all I could feel was joy.

-

Gatsby and I swam for what we came to realise was two hours. Time had flown by so fast, I had hardly felt a minute of it, but when Gatsby slipped from the warm pool and came to sit solemnly at the side of the pool, legs just dipping into the water, gaze focused resolutely on his apparently very interesting legs, even I could sense the shift in mood.

Gently, I swam up to Gatsby, then too joined him in rising from the water. I did not sit beside him, though I did come to kneel to his right. My brain swirled, trying to conjure my best condolences for the rejected man, but what left my parted lips was barely satisfactory.

"I'm sorry she didn't call, Jay," I told him, sincerity in my heart but a self-disdain for the lack of eloquence in my words that characterised Gatsby's every sentence, "I really am. I'll talk to her, if you'd like?"

"Oh. That's all right, old sport," Gatsby offered to me these unconvincing words, and upon sensing that I hadn't moved an inch from his side, he cast his gaze up to me, giving me a sad smile. "That's all right, Nick. It isn't your fault."

"And it isn't yours," I reassured him, though I couldn't hope to predict what was running through his mind at that very moment. The silence filled our conversation, ate every word I dared to try and utter, until there was no more left for me to say. All I had left within me was a resignation, a voice urging me to leave Gatsby alone now. "Well, I'd better get going, then."

"Yes, of course," Gatsby suddenly shot into action, as though the mere thought of him being considered a rude host set him alight. He stood, silently urging me to do the same, and helped me gather my things to take back home, still donning my underwear that had acted as my makeshift swimsuit. Not once have I ever felt rushed by Gatsby, though in that instant I felt certain he was rushing himself, for some reason unbeknownst to me. Perhaps he did desire to be alone.

As I made to walk out of Gatsby's gate, the man himself having accompanied me on my exit to bid me farewell, I suddenly stopped. I knew I had to say something more, to tell Gatsby something rather devastatingly important, and so I spoke the words that were bouncing around my head irritatingly. 

"They're a rotten crowd," I told him, though even I wasn't quite sure where this final remark was going. "You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."

The candour of my words appeared to shock both of us, though the initial fright that I had said something wrong or out of line dissipated when I saw the smile returning to Gatsby's lips. It was his real smile, the one that told everything was going to be all right, that nobody in the world had to worry about anything because the universe simply understood us all, and there was a plan for every being who was brave enough to face the fact of their existence.

He simply nodded, a silent dismissal, though there was nothing whatsoever unkind about the gesture.

-

The next time I saw Gatsby, it was as though nothing at all devastating had happened. It was on the next Friday morning that I received a letter from the man, exactly as I had the first time we met, and it informed me - in Gatsby's perfectly formed handwriting - that there was to be a party at his mansion, that Saturday evening.

Admittedly, this notion took me by surprise at first. Was Gatsby fit to host such an elaborate party, I wondered? I had believed him to be - rather understandably so - in a state of depression, after losing the woman that could quite possibly be the love of his life. Then again, I reconsidered: could it be possible that this is simply Gatsby's way of recovering from such rejection?

Regardless, that Saturday evening, I donned my finest suit, freshly pressed and without a mark or hole in sight. Some part of me must have believed that, if I made the effort to look presentable, maybe that would help Gatsby realise that the world wasn't broken, no matter what his aching heart must have been telling him, and there was no reason for him to give up.

After bothering to style my hair for once - nothing elaborate, merely a little gel to pin my overhanging fringe back - I set off, leaving my house in favour of Gatsby's home. I knew not where to look for the man, but somehow I knew he would find me.

I was proven right when, not ten minutes after entering Gatsby's property and only just having reached the cocktail bar, one of Gatsby's messengers located me, and ordered that I follow him, upon Gatsby's personal request. I felt rather like Jordan must have, so long ago now: the special one, chosen from a crowd of hundreds - possibly even thousands - to be by Gatsby's side.

I easily followed the man through the thumping crowd of bodies, right past the band loudly playing elegant yet modern music, up the stairs and past the fountain, right to where Gatsby was stood. As he so often did, he was staring out pensively at his crowd, as though considering each and every one of them individually. When the man announced my presence to him, however, he was quick to turn.

"Old sport!" He called to me, beaming smile spreading across his face once more. It was impossible not to compare this version of him with the man I had met initially, what with how both of their grins implied he had never experienced heartbreak or trauma or any of it, and his glistening eyes told of hope for the future. It was gorgeous to see the flicker of such promise once more return to Gatsby's face.

He said something to me which was too quiet to hear over the still rather loud music, so I was forced to lean in closer and ask him to repeat what he had said again.

"Are you having a good time?" He responded, just as eager as he had looked the first time, and I could only smile in return.

"As always," I told him, though I couldn't be sure he had heard me because he simply nodded in response. I asked him, continuing the conversation as I feared it dying out, didn't want to disappoint the man, "Does anybody ever not have the time of their lives at your parties?"

This question sparked a rather uncharacteristic conversation with Gatsby, as he indulged in me the facts of a few rather unpleasant party-goers he'd had to deal with in the past. This being a sensitive topic, of course, and nothing for the public ear to hear, I had to move closer to Gatsby so the man could lean into me, murmuring the sometimes gruesome, other times comical facts of each case.

"Goodness me!" I proclaimed at one particular fact, when Gatsby told me something rather provocative about a scene he had come across involving the Mayor and Joseph Green's daughter, "It can't be."

"Unfortunately," Gatsby confirmed, though there was still a bemused sort of smirk painted on his tilted-up lips, as though there was always a little humour in tragedy. I couldn't say there wasn't something in me that agreed with that notion.

It was at that moment, just as I was about to request that Gatsby went on, never stopped speaking about the unbelievable happenings in his life and underground goings-on at his parties, that we were interrupted. A young woman, blonde and petite, and presumably her husband (though I could never be quite positive at Gatsby's parties), an older man in his forties, approached us - or, rather, approached Gatsby.

As ever, he politely greeted them, taking a step forward, away from me, to shake the man's hand firmly and to nod to the woman. To my surprise, however, he immediately came right back to my side, finding his position to my left once more. And, as the natural gentleman that he was, he made sure to include me in the conversation whenever he was appropriate.

Though I was engaging in casual, jovial conversation with Gatsby and his guests (who, as I learned, were the Duke and Duchess of some very important place that has now slipped my mind), it did not miss me that Gatsby was inching ever-so-slowly closer to me. At first I had chalked it up to an accidental occurrence, no more than a nervous tick as Gatsby was prone to, however when his elbow twice purposefully bumped mine, I could no longer blame his actions on this.

I was instantly at a loss of what to do. I had not expected such contact to be initiated by Gatsby, a man whose entire livelihood seemed to be based on his solitary nature, trust in nobody and not getting close, emotionally or physically. Yet here he was, he who had been so recently scorned, trying to reach out to me and get closer. How could I refuse him this refuge?

And so, with this in mind, I let myself brush against him. I did not initiate anything, only took what Gatsby was willing to give me and did not request anything more. However the man was choosing to heal his fresh wounds, I knew I would be right there beside him.

It was when the gentleman - the Duke - said something particularly funny that Gatsby let out a rather loud laugh, almost seeming feigned, and his arm shot to mine, grasping at my forearm. At first, I believed it to be an unconscious action, an accident he would rectify within seconds, but when his touch lingered, even after he had stopped laughing, my heart began to race.

I was unsure of what I was meant to do. Was I meant to do anything, or should I just let this happen? The Duke and Duchess hadn't seemed to notice anything was strange yet. Or perhaps they had, and they deemed this normal conduct for two men? No, surely not-

Just as my mind began to whirr, Gatsby's grip slipped. His fingers gingerly touched mine as his hand fell back to his side, taking instead to fumbling with his pocket, slipping his hand in there, safe from the outside world, from any further rejection, from me.

There was no shift in Gatsby's movement, nor his speech, and yet I still felt I had disappointed him in some inexplicable, unnamed way.

-

Nothing further happened that night. I spent the rest of the party overthinking, getting roaring drunk when I could not come to any semblance of a sensible conclusion, and finally I had to excuse myself from Gatsby's presence to stop my mind spinning so wildly out of control, overrun by lecherous, sinful, disturbing thoughts.

I found Jordan Baker at some point, who - despite being beyond tipsy herself at the time - still saw the pitiful state I was in, and took it upon herself to get me water from Gatsby's rather impressive, pristine kitchen, sitting me down on the path outside and talking softly to me.

There was never anything soft about Jordan. Well, strictly speaking that wasn't true, because there as a certain softness that I saw rest upon her sharp features, just every so often. It was like catching a glimpse of a shooting star, or meeting your favourite celebrity: a rare occurrence in itself, and over far, far too soon.

I could acknowledge, as I swayed where I sat and stared perhaps a little too intently at her face, that she was beautiful. Not only did she know how to paint her features like the other women, but she did it only enough so as to accentuate them, never to alter them entirely. She was a long, elegant lady, somehow with a boyish shape and yet with curves. She was athletic, but tastefully so. I could see how others may be attracted to her, could see her appeal, so why was it, I wondered, that I could not bring myself to love her?

Perhaps it was her cynicism, I pondered, or her apparent lack of ability to feel anything but mistrust that set me apart from her, but I quickly discarded this idea. If anything, Jordan's realism was the thing I respect most about her; this was what set her most apart from Daisy, the fact that she saw situations and people for how they were, not how they ought to be.

Still, there was a relentless nagging within the confines of my chest that irked me, made me want to discover just what it was that made me not madly attracted to the woman, who was by all accounts perfect. As though she could read my mind, Jordan spoke to ease my qualms.

"You've got to stop thinking so much," she scolded, though the upward tilt of her lips told me she was only half-serious at best, "You'll kill yourself that way."

I slurred out something unintelligible, a response she somehow understood, and that made her laugh. Our conversation continued for about a half hour, though it's all jumbled up in my memory now, until she finally stood us both up, allowing me to lean on her shoulder as she told me she was taking me home, and that I could thank her later.

My mind has blacked out all events of that night following that, however I do remember waking up the next morning with a pounding headache and an aching heart.

-

Gatsby invited me out that same Sunday afternoon, and simply would not take no for an answer. He had turned up at my doorstep, dressed in his best, brightest salmon suit, and demanded that I let him take me out for lunch.

Though an unwelcome request in itself, I found this to be rather promising. I had been wrong in my belief that I had upset Gatsby that last night in my statue-esque stature; he was not angry nor upset with me, but rather asking me to dine with him. Against the recommendation of anybody trying to recover from a hangover, I slowly dressed and left to join Gatsby for lunch.

We arrived at a quaint restaurant on the outskirts of town at exactly 12:30. The property looked worn-down, but tastefully so, and there was a pretty coating of ivy sprawling around the door, completely covering one side of the red-brick building. The owner, upon seeing Gatsby's car pull up outside, all but ran from the front doors to greet the two of us.

There was something thrilling about going out into the public eye with Gatsby. After all, the man was a living legend in the area, notorious for his parties and his well-mannered self, so it was almost as though his fame extended to me when I went with him. For the most part, I let him do the talking, considering I was in a foreign location and had a building migraine. He ordered, chatted away to me, and I offered as much as I felt like offering, whenever and wherever I could. This seemed to please Gatsby, who ate with a smile on his face.

After lunch, we took a stroll about town. There was nothing I needed, and my mind was far too preoccupied with my current condition to think about anything I /wanted/, so I merely kept pace with Gatsby as he continued to talk as he walked, popping into shops, purchasing a few items here and there. I cannot recall precisely what he got, but he seemed pleased with his purchases, whatever they were.

Gatsby rarely ever seemed displeased with anything. In hindsight, I believe I have only ever seen Gatsby visibly upset three times in my life, and they were all in regards to 'the Daisy situation', as I had titled it. Once when he shouted at Tom, a second time when he was hiding after Daisy had crashed his car, and the third and final time being when Daisy had neglected to call him, leaving him abandoned, despite his best efforts and seeming successes.

In that time, however, after Daisy was deemed a terrible mistake, a regretful incident of Gatsby refusing to let go of his past, I had never seen him happier. Each time I saw him, either when went out together or when I caught sight of him in his house, he always seemed to be smiling. It was a welcome change, after seeing him so distraught in the pool early that morning; never had I seen such a quick turn-around in a man, in all my years.

After we had finished lunch and we had done with the shops, Gatsby offered to drive us back home. Gratefully, I accepted this kind offer, immediately putting in process a plan of action to get inside and sleep off my dreadful, relentless headache.

The drive back was quieter, and I may have found it unusual if not for my growing desire to retreat back to the darkness of my quaint house and drop off into a deep slumber. Belly full, I felt more than prepared for rest, so when Gatsby's car finally pulled up outside of my home, I readily had my hand on the door handle, but before I could open the door and rush into my house, a hand on my arm stopped me.

I was instantly thrust back into the past night's events, when Gatsby's hand had found my arm, seemingly not caring about the opinions of others as he reached out and clung to me as though I was his final hope. This memory forced me to stop, ceasing my hasty exit, and giving Gatsby time to act.

Prefaced only by a meek, 'Nick, I-', Gatsby's free hand reached out suddenly for my face. Unable to process what was happening quickly enough, I could only wait to see what was going to happen. Perhaps it should have been unsurprising that what soon followed Gatsby's rough grasping of my jaw was a firm kiss being planted onto my lips, the man's radiating body heat enveloping me in an instant.

Unsure of how to react, I let the man sink into me, our chests brought together by the forcefulness of the kiss, heartbeats racing in sync with one another's. Something about Gatsby had shifted from the way he was at lunch: a timid, nervous, trembling creature had taken his form and kicked the gregarious, confident man out of his own body and taken control for itself.

Never one to like disappointing people, I let myself press forward, just slightly, and found that something within me rather enjoyed the sensation. There was an unusual desperation, lack of calculation behind Gatsby's actions, and the thought that he had undone himself in such a way, just for me to see, was rather exciting.

Not wanting to push too far, however, I only let my hands settle lightly on Gatsby's shoulders, kissing him back softly, as though I were a ghost, pressing a phantom, barely-there kiss to the man's lips. I could feel him shift beneath my touch, the tense atmosphere fading just a little, and as my attention shifted to Gatsby's mouth and the muscles flexing beneath my hands, I felt my migraine slip into the background of my thoughts.

The hand on my arm slipped away, coming to join his other hand at my jaw, each deciding to take one cheek each, giving him a better way to manipulate my face. He pulled away reluctantly, gasping for breath after the prolonged kiss, but it wasn't long before he was peppering kisses to my lips once more, with the fervour of a madman, as though he was truly afraid I would slip away.

It was with this thought that there came to me a horrible realisation of what was really happening here. Gatsby wasn't kissing me for the sensation of kissing /me/ - of course he wasn't, and I was a fool for ever thinking otherwise. No, this was merely displacement - it must have been - from his rejection of Daisy, an outlet for him to do all he had longed to do with her, but never had the time to.

This was what made me pull away from Gatsby, who had taken to pressing kisses along my jaw now, one hand still holding me firmly in place. The suddenness of my action must have startled him, because he broke out of his haze, eyes fixing onto mine. There was a sort of cloud that had come over his sapphire orbs, which was something that only furthered my point, and made me feel I had to leave more urgently now.

"I'll see you..." I trailed off, unsure when I would be seeing Gatsby next - when I could handle seeing him again - and deftly unlocked the car door, shutting it without meeting Gatsby's eye. I retreated into the safety of my house, which was getting darker by the second, and stumbled off to bed, reasoning that I could handle this issue when my mind was in a better place.

-

Over the next few days, I heard nothing from Gatsby. This provided me with the perfect opportunity to mull over the events of that night with a more logical brain. 

On the one hand, I knew that what had happened was wrong. Were both men, Gatsby and I, which meant that, on a very basic level, we were not to engage in such acts. The, on deeper analysis, I found even more reasons not to allow this behaviour to continue any longer, such as the fact that Gatsby was vulnerable - now more than ever, surely - and so I should not take advantage of the man, to let him do anything he might regret.

I had never considered myself a very masculine man, nowhere near the epitome of my sex. I had always been just under the average height, my stature neither broad nor imposing in the slightest. There is a femininity about both my outward and inward appearance that has always somehow been the root of my issues, both in terms of the bullying I endured spanning from my young childhood into my early-manhood and my apparent complete inability to stand my ground in arguments, always bending to the other party's demands.

/Perhaps, then, this is why Gatsby views me as a viable outlet for his repressed romantic desires,/ I concluded. As well as this, there was the undeniable fact that I was Daisy's closest, most local living relative, which may have added to Gatsby's list as to why he would choose to kiss me, of all people.

Even so, despite my reasoning and deliberating, there was some part, buried deep within me, that told me to let it happen. If this was what Gatsby needed to recover from Daisy's heartbreak, maybe I should let him have his way with me, however he so wished. And besides, though I would never admit it to anybody but myself, there was something quite thrilling about kissing Gatsby, be it the fact that /he chose me/, or the possibility of getting caught by one of our nosy neighbours, or one of Gatsby's obsessive admirers. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all.

With both of these compelling arguments tearing my brain in two, I can hardly say I was thinking straight when I accepted Gatsby's invitation to have tea at his house the following Thursday evening. He must have known I had the day off of work - yes, I must have told him, mustn't I? - and so he had decided this would be the perfect time to reconcile, and he would probably talk about the events of their last meeting. 

I spent the time between receiving the invitation and stepping into Gatsby's house dreading how this conversation would go. I could already predict that it would be awkward, the two of us alone in the room sipping tea and discussing our kiss. Not to mention, I would have to explain why I had scurried away so suddenly, just seconds after I had been engaging rather enthusiastically in said kissing.

The time came, however, and I arrived to Gatsby's home right on time, not wanting to get us off on a bad foot. The man himself did not meet me at the gates, but rather I was lead in by one of his servants - a butler I had seen a few times before, though could not recall the name of. He took me to Gatsby's living room, where I often caught sight of him reading a book late at night, before the lights went out. He was a true scholar, though not a smug one.

As we walked into the room, I noted how well-decorated every space in Gatsby's mansion appeared to be. There was a sort of apple green coloured wallpaper on the walls, and there were dark chocolate coloured couches spread evenly throughout the room. By the window was the armchair where I recognised Gatsby sat to read, but before I could register anything else about the room, I saw the man, and all coherent thought was thrown rather unceremoniously out of the window.

He sat on one of the couches, tucked away to one side. Before him, on a low coffee table, was a tray with two cups and a pot of what was presumably tea. I hadn't noticed I had stopped breathing until I began to feel faint, and only when Gatsby spoke did I allow myself to breathe once more.

"Thank you, Richard," he said, sparing the man a kind smile and nod, implying he should leave now. Taking the hint, Richard left, shutting the door behind him, keeping us away from the world and its prying eyes.

I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. I filled the void of where our conversation should have been with taking my time crossing the room, planting myself beside Gatsby on the couch, putting a safe yet not hostile distance between us. I had not yet decided whether I would allow such intimate things to happen again, or if I had come here today to abort them altogether.

There was a silence that followed my sitting down that made me squirm. I could not control my outward expression of discomfort, though this was only as a result of my own incompetence at maintaining normalcy and nothing to do with Gatsby's action. In fact, he was the saving grace of this awkward situation, when he took it upon himself to speak.

"Tea?" He asked simply, but it broke the deathly quiet trance we had been sinking into.

"Yes, please," I responded, just a little too promptly, but Gatsby didn't mention it. I kept to polite remarks, thanking him for the tea et cetera, before I finally confessed, "It's good to see you again."

And that was the God's honest truth, that I knew deep down in my heart. Even though I was unsure how our past encounter was going to impact our future relationship, for the best of for the worst, I knew for sure I wouldn't have lasted much longer without seeing Gatsby's face. To be in his home, no less, was like a haven, an oasis in the desert of my life outside of his extravagance. To feel the warmth of his living room, radiating from his person, and to be enveloped in the scent of classy cologne as I sat so close to him... I felt intoxicated all over again.

I sipped my tea and watched as Gatsby fumbled for words. I dared not speak for fear of making the whole situation even worse, simply waited until Gatsby was ready to voice whatever it was that was evidently bothering him so, which he eventually managed to do.

"In regards to the other night," he began, seemingly trying to prepare himself for his next words, which he seemed to have planned in his head. He sucked in a sharp breath, then began talking a little faster than he had been previously, "I hope I didn't offend you with what I did. I understand if you'd rather not see me again, or if you have lost all respect for me, but all I can ask is that you don't hold-"

Before Gatsby could drive himself insane with thinking and overthinking, I set down my teacup and saucer, and something seemed to click in my mind as I wordlessly shifted closer to Gatsby, who at the time was still rambling about reputation and mistakes. His stream of words were only stopped when I reached out for him, one hand setting itself on the plumpness of his cheek and the other coming to rest on his shoulder. His eyes stared at me, watchful, and then, as though the mess of a dilemma had sorted itself out in my head, I kissed him.

There was, of course, a great deal of fear rising within my chest. My heart was beating quickly, and my face soon began to flush a deep rose colour. I prayed Gatsby had already closed his eyes, so he would not see my embarrassment and misinterpret it. 

To my surprise, his response was almost immediate. After only a brief pause - a second or less, I presume - he kissed me back, and anything else we might be doing or perhaps should have been prioritising slinked into the background of our minds, and we became mutually infatuated with one another. It was, within an instant, as though the rest of the world and those in it had ceased to be.

As I had to remind myself, though, this was nothing personal. No matter how personal it felt, with our lips pressed against one another, Gatsby's large yet gentle hand finding its way to my waist and me tipping closer, almost atop of Gatsby now, this wasn't about us.

I assumed the female role, as seemed natural in this scenario. After all, it seemed strange to me that Gatsby would imagine Daisy dominating him in such a circumstance, so I allowed myself to keen into his touches, granting him access to my mouth when his tongue silently requested entry, letting him explore as he wanted to. I was pleased by anything and everything I could get from Gatsby.

There was a thought in my mind, not in the foreground but certainly still prominent, that somebody could walk in at any moment. Gatsby was a rich man who could afford several servants, maids and butlers, who were all undoubtedly very attentive, so I thought it only natural that I kept stealing glances over towards the door. Gatsby, however, could tell I was on edge.

"Old sport," he called to me, voice sounding drowsy, infiltrated by some rich, dark substance that drew me in even closer. His hand found my face, bringing my gaze back to him from where it had been lingering at the door, and I tried to keep my eyes on his, though in that moment I had to admit his lips seemed far more interesting, all red, bitten, and plump. "No one will be coming in, I assure you."

Had it been anybody else, I might have asked them how they could be so sure. With Gatsby, however, I had learned to take everything he said as gospel, for the man seemed, at least on some level, to be a divine being of omnipotent nature. I merely nodded, dipping back in to kiss him once more, Gatsby meeting me half way.

Before I knew it, I was straddling him. It should have been embarrassing, how natural it seemed to me to take the submissive role, but in a short amount of time I found I rather quite liked it. There was something about having Gatsby's hands roaming across my body, fingers slipping just under my now untucked shirt to tickle the strip of skin there, just above my trousers... a cruel tease.

I could only gain pleasure by rocking my hips against Gatsby's - an action which he met with equal fervour. Knowing this was for him, too, if not primarily, I took to pressing kisses lazily to the side of his face, trailing down his neck, and reached a hand between the two of us, grasping him through his smart trousers.

Before long, Gatsby was writhing madly beneath me, grabbing any part of me that he could reach, eventually settling on my waist and forcing me down onto him, roughly grinding our hips together. This was a new experience for me, in a number of ways. One, of course, was that I had never done anything like this with a man - well, not quite like this, anyway. Secondly, however, was that I had never seen Gatsby so dishevelled, so desperate and primitive. He wanted this - not wanted me, I had to remind myself time and time again - and so I would give it to him, as best as I could.

When his orgasm hit him, I knew about it instantly. His fingers gripped so tightly onto my flesh that I was convinced (and later proven correct) that there would be bruises there in the days to come. He made a sound, choking out my name, and then his erratic movements stilled. 

Once he had finished, I knew that our experience was over, at least this time. Clambering off of him, I assumed my previous position of sitting beside Gatsby, thinking how strange it felt to be acting usual once more. I let him recollect himself, reorganising his thoughts and processing what had just happened, and only then did he look at me.

I purposefully evaded his gaze, fearing what I might find there. Instead I occupied myself staring at the desolate teacups, where the drinks grew colder by the second, and tried to look busy. Gatsby, it seemed, had other ideas.

I was admittedly taken by surprise when he drew closer to me, but I managed to outwardly maintain my composure. Inside, though, I was a nervous wreck, to put it lightly. As Gatsby brought a single finger to tug the collar of my shirt down, my heart must have malfunctioned, because it felt like I had lost the feeling of my heartbeat. Rather, I was a hollow person, my only focus being on the sensation of Gatsby pressing wet kisses to my newly exposed neck, making my head loll backwards against my better judgement.

It felt good. I allowed myself to admit that much, but as soon as I felt Gatsby's hand attempting to undo my trousers, I forced myself to intervene. Casting a vague look at my watch, I feigned shock and interrupted his actions.

"Oh! Look at the time," I lied through my teeth, and I knew it was unconvincing at best, "I'd better go. Thank you for tea!"

And with that, I slid out from under Gatsby, tucking my shirt back into my trousers and ruffling my hair in an attempt to make it look as though Gatsby hadn't been fisting his fingers through it just seconds prior, not wanting to alert his workers to any less-than-platonic business. 

As I make my speedy exit, navigating the large, winding corridors with surprising ease, I considered just what Gatsby thought he was doing. What did he expect to do, once he had my trousers open? It was hardly as though we could continue the facade once my cock was clearly visible, out in the daylight, most obviously, definitely not Daisy's. 

No, he was driven mad with lust, I finally reasoned. He was out of his mind.

-

The next meeting came much sooner than the previous times. Just the next morning, not twenty-four hours after our rendezvous and my sheepish exit, Gatsby had had a letter delivered to my house, which essentially stated that he would like to see me again at my earliest convenience.

One key thing to note about this letter came at the very end. After a long paragraph detailing his schedule, though telling me he would be more than willing to shift anything if his free time did not coincide with mine, he concluded the letter with a simple term of endearment, though it was widely different to how he had ended his other letters. There, written in his infallible handwriting, were two words, addressing me without using my name: 'my love'.

Without thinking, I thrust the piece of paper down onto the nearest surface and grasped manically at my hair. To an outsider, I would have looked insane, driven mad by the too-sweet contents of the letter. Immediately I began to have second thoughts about the plan, wondered if letting Gatsby play out his Daisy fantasy involving me was the smartest idea after all, but then I began to calm down.

I occupied myself with thinking of when I would be free to see the man again, and what we perhaps might get up to. A thousand hypotheticals were thrown up into my head, each seeming equally plausible, and before I drove myself further into the ground I decided first on a date and time I would join the man for dinner, as he had requested. One step at a time.

And so it happened that, after two begrudging days of work and a number of unsuccessful sales, I was arriving once more at Gatsby's gates, being lead into the house which felt so familiar to me now by a man - not Richard - who took me to Gatsby's dining room.

There, the man sat, lit by a few candles, the warm light dancing on his handsome features. It had always been apparent to me how attractive Gatsby was, but now it meant something different. No longer was he an untouchable man, a deity among humans with his sandy hair and bright eyes, but he was there to touch, to flirt with, and maybe even to... well, I didn't want to get ahead of myself.

That evening, I spent hours at Gatsby's, dining and laughing, batting my eyelashes as I had seen Daisy do to almost too many men in her short lifetime. This elicited some sort of response from Gatsby, who wordlessly reached over to brush a stray hair from my eyes, letting his hand linger for a second too long before dropping it to the table, right beside mine.

My gaze was glued to our two hands, after that. An awful sensation began in my stomach, and it felt as though I had swallowed a bees nest all in one go, with the insects still alive and buzzing inside of my stomach. I longed to shift my hand to rest atop of Gatsby's, but a sudden shyness took me, whisked me away, and made me paralysed. All I could do was watch.

Thankfully, Gatsby seemed to notice how my attention had shifted, and so he once more took it upon himself to do what I was so afraid of doing. I looked on as his hand crept towards mine, slowly but surely, and finally covered it with his own. His thumb ran softly atop my fingers, and I couldn't stop myself from letting out a nervous, girlish giggle.

My eyes flickered to Gatsby's face once more, who I found watching me intently. It was as though he was analysing my every move, a slight smirk playing at his lips, and upon meeting my eye he seemed decided about something. I did not ask what.

About an hour later, against my better judgement (a state in which I had seemed to be living at that time), I found myself in Gatsby's room. I was uncertain how to proceed, but Gatsby made sure to guide me through it, telling me exactly what he wanted to do, and assuring me he would stop at any time if I so wished. With this sentiment, I allowed myself to be guided towards the bed, Gatsby smiling softly at me, almost adoringly. In that instant, only one thing ran through my head: 'my love'.

We sat down on the edge of the bed together, and when he kissed me something was noticeably different. No longer was this our first, not even our second kiss. There was a particular sense of familiarity, as though we understood each other much better now. His lips were as gentle as ever, and there was no rush of panic as he went to undo the buttons of my shirt.

Taking the hint, I began to undress Gatsby, who took the action with a sense of grace which had become so personalised to him by now that anything else would have seemed out of the ordinary. He took his own trousers off, apparently predicting that it would be difficult for me to do it for him, but when he went to remove mine, I grabbed his arms. He stopped in an instant.

"Jay..." saying his first name felt foreign to me, but not wrong, "Could we turn the lights off?"

I had become suddenly self-conscious, remembering once more that this was not about me. I believed it would be easier for the both of us to pretend I was Daisy if Gatsby could not see my obviously masculine form, especially my genitals. Nodding, he simply stood, crossed the room, and shut the lights off. With the room plunged into darkness, I felt newly comfortable, and welcomed him back with open arms and much more sensual kisses.

That night, Gatsby and I lay together for the first time. Properly, almost as a man and woman might do, only Gatsby used some sort of ointment or oil that eased his entry into me. It was something I was eternally grateful for, considering how I still felt some pain of stretching even with it. I could not imagine how I would have felt if we had had intercourse without it.

Despite letting myself indulge, however, I was still mindful of Gatsby's pleasure, and what the root of this whole ordeal was. When he told me that he wanted for us to have sex, I nodded, consenting wilfully of course, but immediately turned onto my front, figuring this would be the best way for the Daisy pretence to continue; there would be no hard reminder between the two of us of who Gatsby was really entertaining that night.

There was a point, just after he announced he was arriving at his orgasm, that his hand snaked around my waist. I was flush up against his chest, mouth cast open in a perpetual 'o' formation, hands buried in his hair which was behind my head. His fingers just brushed the tip of my cock, and a sharp sound erupted from within me, taking both of us by surprise. Without hesitation, I knocked his hand away and replaced it instead with my own, relishing in the feeling when Gatsby's hand instead took to roaming the expanse of my naked torso.

Shortly following our climaxes, the two of us drifted off to sleep. I had intended initially to finish up at Gatsby's and then make my way back to my own home, which was of course just next door. However, as soon as the wave of tiredness struck me, every ounce of my energy ripped from me with my intense orgasm, I felt physically incapable of moving, and the warmth of Gatsby's bed was too inviting. And so I slept, in amongst our delicious sins, until morning light.

-

That next morning, when the sunlight broke in through Gatsby's large window, I awoke to find I felt more well-rested than I ever had in my life. There must have been something about Gatsby's bed, I thought, or perhaps it was the heat radiating from the man himself, who had slept beside me all night.

Peeling my eyes open, I found Gatsby looking at me, obviously having noticed the signs of my waking. I began to stretch, prepared to bid him a good morning, still too drowsy to feel any sort of guilt or shame about what we had done the night before. Then, all of a sudden, it dawned on me that, of the four pillows Gatsby kept on his bed, I had stolen three of them.

"Oh!" is what immediately shot from my mouth, followed by movements faster than I could even comprehend, whipping the spare pillow out from under my head, mock-scolding, "Jay, you should have woken me."

"It's no bother," he dismissed, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He remains leaning on one elbow, looking at me with a somewhat sleepy gaze, bed sheet revealing half of his toned body, a sight for sore eyes. I tried not to think about such things. "Besides, my love, you looked so peaceful when you slept. I didn't want to wake you."

I wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but regardless, now that I was awake, I wasn't going to continue to deprive the man of his two-pillow right. I tried gesturing for him to take it back, but he merely shook his head gently. 

Once I had grown tired of his refusal to take the pillow, I took instead to manoeuvring Gatsby around, trying to lift his head whilst moving his arm, giving myself the chance to throw the pillow beneath him. This sent him into a fit of laughter, though I still could not definitively say whether this was with me or at me, but it all soon stopped once he had my hand pinned beneath his head.

It was done in one motion that was so swift, I almost didn't see it happening at all. Before I knew it, Gatsby had me trapped, our faces close together, the unmistakable scent of his lasting cologne only drawing me closer. The mood of the room had shifted in that instant, and I knew not how to look away from Gatsby, not how to excuse myself from the situation even if I wanted to.

"You're beautiful," Gatsby told me in a hushed voice, and then all I could think about is how he must be picturing Daisy above him right now, her sweet blonde curls and dark eyes hypnotising him, making him say such things.

Even still, I felt my cheeks heat up, as though the comment was really made to me. To prevent Gatsby from seeing this, I dipped in to his him, lingering for a second, letting him press back up into me, then slipping my hands free and falling back to my side of the bed.

This made Gatsby laugh a fantastic laugh, and then without another word about it he was sitting up, dressing, and heading out the door. He told me he was going to find somebody to make breakfast, then looked at me and asked, with a quirked eyebrow, "Will you be staying for food, my love?"

I could only shake my head, negative. Seeing his face fall slightly made my heart hurt, but I knew it was for the best; better not get too comfortable. He simply nodded, forcing the wide smile back onto his face, and set off down the hallway, leaving me alone in his room.

I took my time rising from bed, but made sure to be dressed before Gatsby returned for reasons that had become like a second-nature to me by then. Once clothed, I made my way over to Gatsby's mirror, using it to style my hair, not having realised how messy it had become overnight. I straightened up my clothes, cursed how well-rested I looked, and then I too set off, out of Gatsby's room, making sure to vanish like a phantom before he came back, as if I was never really there.

-

About a month later, I felt I had not seen Gatsby in the daylight in years. I had taken to scheduling our meetings for the evening, meeting with him for dinner and repeating that first night spent together, scene by scene. It felt like a terrible play that I was stuck in, playing the role of Daisy despite being so poorly fitted for it that it was comical. 

One night, though, everything changed. Gatsby invited me to spend the day with him, and so we drove to a park by Gatsby's suggestion, and took our time wandering around it, chatting aimlessly, laughing and smiling as though nothing major at all had happened between us, and we were merely just friends once more. I could not decide whether I liked this or not, though I settled eventually on that I did. 

It was nice to see Gatsby's face in the daylight, instead of his features being lit by artificial or candle light. I could better study his features this way, with his sloping nose, beautiful eyes, and brilliant mouth. I was once more enchanted.

I felt it strange, though, how after this, we agreed to go back to his home. And not only did we go back to his home, but we stayed together all afternoon, talking and playing boardgames at my request, and then his caterers served us both dinner when the time came. I felt as though I had been taken in as part of the household, my presence truly accepted by all and a burden to none.

When the clock struck nine o'clock, Gatsby turned to me with a poorly concealed longing in his eyes. It was unlike that which I had grown to used to as of late, however, as there was no apparent hidden lust nor ulterior motive there, only a platonic desire to have me agree.

"Stay, will you, my love?" The term of endearment came so naturally to him now, stolen the place of 'old sport', though I found rather quickly that I much preferred this one.

Unable to resist Gatsby's 'kicked puppy-dog' stare, I nodded, caving to the man's desire as I always did. And so it happened that, as we had done on so many nights now, at ten thirty, we both stood, retreating to Gatsby's bedroom, and conducted our usual affair in secret.

This time, there was something akin to hesitance in Gatsby's movement, something almost comparable to nervousness. I sensed it immediately, but not wanting to deter the man if it was something he didn't want to talk about, I merely sat there, letting Gatsby undress me like a fine China doll that he was afraid he might shatter into pieces.

The moment came when he finally spoke up, and it happened just as I was going to go and switch off the lights, which had become our custom at this point. 

"Nick," he used my proper name now, which immediately caught my attention. I stopped dead in my tracks. "Could we leave them on tonight?"

The question began a ringing in my ears. Leave them on? No, surely I must have misheard him. Once more, I concluded, he must not be thinking straight, in the wrong mindset. I'd have to remind him.

"Oh," I began unsuspectingly, gesturing between us, "I just thought that... well, you know."

Gatsby's face scrunched up, demonstrating his confusion. He shook his head, "What? What is it, my love?"

My heart got caught in my throat, hearing the man use that title for me - that name which held so much value, that told me I was above everybody else in his eyes, and that was the only opinion that mattered to me. I was barely able to manage to squeeze half a coherent sentence out, uttering slowly, "I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"What do you mean?" Gatsby asked incredulously, though nothing accusatory was evident in his tone. He simply looked at me, a concerned expression painted on his features. When my response did not come, he continued, "Of course I want to see you, my love."

"But... if this is about Daisy-" I barely began, before he interrupted me.

"Daisy? My love, how is this about Daisy?" He queried, before a look of recognition spread across his face, and he had the decency to look ashamed. He went on, punctuating his epiphany with a simple, "Oh."

I furrowed my brow. "Wait, is this not about Daisy?"

"No, my love," he reached over to tuck a stray piece of my hair, which was getting just a little too long now, behind my hear, "This isn't about Daisy."

"Then..." I began to piece everything together in my head, though it still didn't quite make sense to me, even when the picture seemed completed, "This is about me?"

"Yes," Gatsby hummed, a warm smile returning to his lips, "This has been about you the whole time, my love."

My brain swam for a good moment or so, but knowing I had to keep the conversation going, I posed the complex question, "But I thought you loved her?"

It was Gatsby's turn to stop, looking deep in thought, before he began his explanation. "I did love her, once. But... well, have you read about the Ancient Greeks, my love?"

He must have known the answer even before posing the question, but still I shook my head in response.

"Well, they believed that human beings could love not only one sex, but two," he put this brief piece of history into layman's terms, just for me, somehow managing to not make it sound patronising when it would have been easy for it to sound that way, "And... well, I believe I am something they term 'bi-sexual', which means I can love both women and men."

Trying to grasp this new concept - the notion that people could be not only heterosexual and homosexual, but some place in between - I must have looked like I was scowling, being judgemental about Gatsby's new identity. But then, a wave of something hit me, knocking me over into a pool of realisation. I sucked in a sharp breath, afraid to ask the question.

"So, you loved Daisy..." I began, and Gatsby seemed to sense where my next point was going, readying himself for the big finale, "and you love me, too?"

A sprawling, gorgeous smile spread across Gatsby's perfect features, and he nodded, pulling me in closer. "Of course I love you. I think I always have, since we met, in some strange way."

This reveal knocked the wind from my lungs, leaving me breathless and wordless. I could only stare into Gatsby's eyes, which were shining with adoration and pride, and though I could not conjure the same words to repeat aloud then and there, I believe some part of him knew what I meant when I said:

"Yes, Jay. Yes, we can leave the lights on."

And so, that night, Jay Gatsby and I made love with the moonlight shining through the window that directly faced his bed, a wonderful concoction of his expensive aftershave and some strange appearance of lavender scent in the air. The blinking green light on Daisy's dock was barely visible now, and the woman who it belonged to was long forgotten by both parties.

And yes, I came to realise as I looked Gatsby in the eyes, watching the emotions shift behind them like the turning of the tide, I felt with absolute certainty that I had never felt safer than when I was in his arms, and it just so happens that I did indeed love him, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading this fic! Please feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments; I love reading through them! :)
> 
> Also leave any prompts/suggestions you may have in the comments as well! 
> 
> sidenote: I simply adore these two. The book is hella gay but Tobey Maguire really kicked the homosexuality up a notch in the film, which is what ultimately made me HAVE to write this fic. Like I had no choice. Literally none.


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